


Just Like Home

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hot Fuzz (2007)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-20
Updated: 2009-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lower Tadfield Police Station needs inspecting. Any questions?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in February of 2009.

Unsurprisingly, Nicholas Angel had never heard of Lower Tadfield. Staring at the map that Danny had helpfully fetched from somewhere in one of the (no longer empty) filing cabinets, he had managed to locate it somewhere deep in the Cotswold-stricken bit of Oxfordshire. It was kind of difficult to tell. Fortunately, the drive was only going to take an hour and a half, if Danny's new GPS was to be trusted.

"Mr. Treacher's nephew's girl lives out that way. Married some Oxford lecturer."

Nicholas nodded, by now well-versed in what this kind of information meant. "You know how to get there, then?" he asked, re-folding the map and handing it to Danny.

Danny shrugged and stuffed it in his back pocket. "More or less. When do we leave?"

"Now," Nicholas said, firmly donning his cap. "We should've been on the road ten minutes ago." It was a good job, too, that Danny didn't actually need the GPS. They'd never get satellite reception in the midst of all those bloody trees. Not that they didn't have every right to be there, of course. One should not begrudge national treasures.

An hour and a half, Nicholas had belatedly realized, actually translated to two and some change when traversing this part of the country. One tightly winding road snaked into another, stringing along village after picturesque village. In addition to the more obvious hazards of such rural roadways, there were the inevitable outbreaks of farm creatures and other wildlife. About the third time Danny stopped to let a passel of geese cross the road, Nicholas was resigned to their inevitable tardiness.

"Look at the babies!" Danny cooed. "Cute, ain't they?"

Nicholas smiled, reaching over to pat Danny on the arm. "Road's clear now."

"Right you are. _Whee_!"

Nicholas was instantly glad he hadn't been Danny's driving instructor. He probably wouldn't have survived the experience, and even if he had, the fender repair bills would've done him in. For all Danny's claiming that he wanted to make up lost time, the ensuing rollercoaster ride was gratuitous. They narrowly missed side-swiping an ancient bus. Even the driver looked so old that he ought to be out of commission.

"Where's it going?" Nicholas asked, staring wide-eyed into the rearview mirror, desperately willing himself to recover some semblance of coloring.

"Stratford. May is _horrible_ for tourists. Only good weather out of the whole year."

"I'll remember that," Nicholas said, already resolved to do the driving next time.

Somewhere roughly five miles from where Lower Tadfield was supposedly located, the roads leveled out, the curves gentled, and the inclines became infinitely more forgiving. Even the hedge-rows in the fields looked far more tranquil than they ought to have done. There wasn't a duck or a goose in sight, except for when they passed a field full of fat, happy sheep clustered around an idyllic pond that was dotted with well-behaved waterfowl. Even the goslings kept well in line behind their mothers.

"At least here they have the good sense to keep out of the road," Nicholas observed.

Danny made a dubious noise. "They say there's something funny about this place."

Nicholas just stared at him. They rest of the drive passed mostly in silence, save for a bewildering split-second in which a glossy, antique black car sped past.

"Damn it," Nicholas muttered. They hadn't got the speed detector turned on.

"We're going thirty-five, so they must be going at _least_ forty."

"You're not helping, Danny. Are we there yet?"

"Dunno," said Danny, and set about catching up with the flash bastard ahead of them.

* * *

"It's not as if you had anything _better_ to do with your day," Crowley was saying, pushing his sunglasses up into his windswept hair in a rare moment of genuine contentment. "Besides, every other shop on your street is shut on Mondays."

"One must always keep ahead of the competition," replied Aziraphale, folding his hands in his lap. He had to admit that it _was_ an awfully nice day. There wasn't a cloud in sight. Why they weren't on the way to Stratford like those sensible people in the bus, though, he wasn't sure. He tried not to question Crowley's attachment to Lower Tadfield. It tended to upset the demon's newfound sense of _joie de vivre_. Seventeen years was hardly the blink of an eye. Still, Aziraphale couldn't believe his good luck.

"And one must always take time out to go driving," Crowley mimicked placidly. "Shut it, angel. I can leave you at Jasmine Cottage if you like."

"It would be nice to see dear Anathema and the chil— _Crowley, watch the road_!"

Crowley glanced back over his shoulder, idly regarding the police car whose side mirror they'd nearly taken out. "Going a bit fast for coppers, aren't they?"

Aziraphale sank down in his seat a little, thinking of the inventory he'd left behind.

* * *

Danny was grateful that Lower Tadfield's high street wasn't terribly crowded. Even in Sandford, parallel parking could sometimes be a challenge. Here, it was hardly even a chore, and he seriously wondered if even half the population owned cars. In recent years, it was the sort of place where New Agers and environmentalists had really begun to thrive. He'd heard from Mr. Treacher's nephew's girl, Gemma, that the bus services were second to none within a five-village radius, and that nearly everybody used a bike for local transport. The organic produce was supposedly ace.

"It's very...quiet," Nicholas observed, nudging his car door shut, squinting at a small tea parlor on the opposite side of the street. "What's the major industry here?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "Farming, what else? There used to be the Air Base, but that hasn't been functional in years. Dad used to know a guy stationed here. American. They say he just up and vanished one day about twenty years ago. I mean, _literally_ vanished. I was just a kid. They suspected foul play, but no body ever turned up."

"Now you're _really_ not helping."

"Sorry. It's just... _look_ at the place. It's _perfect_. And to think they sent you to Sandford! If you ask me, there could be a dark secret or two here that needs cracking open. D'you suppose that's why—"

"No," said Nicholas, firmly. "It's because the Lower Tadfield Police Force don't have anyone qualified in Health and Safety, and _somebody_ thought we'd be well suited to the job. Three guesses as to who _that_ was."

"Which way's the station, then?" Danny asked. "I haven't got a clue."

"Shop," Nicholas replied, already halfway across the empty street.

* * *

"I was thinking of taking it over," Anathema said to Madame Tracy, skilfully straining her Earl Grey whilst simultaneously bouncing a pair of squirming five-year-olds in her lap. "It's a shame to let such a long-running publication go down."

"Whatever you think is best, dear," said Madame Tracy, stirring a liberal amount of sugar into her own cup. As proprietress, she very frequently took time out of her day to chat with customers—which was not such a stretch, seeing as she only had about ten regulars, most of whom never showed up on the same day. It helped pass the time, what with her beloved Mister S gone the way of all things some four years ago, rest his soul. Anathema's twins were just _darling_ , and even though teenage Sophie was going through a bad patch, she was still the apple of her godmother's eye.

"It would give me something to do, seeing as I've become a full-time mother," Anathema replied with a shrug, finally lowering an impatient Janet to the floor. "Not what I'd imagined for myself, I admit, but I'm _happy_. Isn't that something?"

"I never thought _I'd_ be happy, but look at how the Fates smiled even on little old me! Thirteen good years. You'd think I'd sold my soul for such bliss."

Anathema reached across the table and took Madame Tracy's hand, careful not to dislodge Natalie from her perch. "There's no such thing," she said reassuringly.

The door-bell jangled, snapping them out of the moment. The sandy-haired, sharp-nosed man peering in at them looked unbelievably confused, the poor dear. Madame Tracy squeezed Anathema's hand and left her to her tea, approaching the door, remembering her proprietress's pride. There were two of them, it turned out, both in sharp police uniforms. Not _quite_ local, though. She couldn't put a finger on it.

"Just you take a seat, good sirs, anywhere you like. Are you in for luncheon?"

"No," said the sandy-haired one, visibly distressed. "We're looking for—"

"Lunch would be _lovely_ ," said the cheery dark-haired one. "Yeah, and that—we're looking for the Station. Do you happen to know its whereabouts?"

Madame Tracy nodded, handing them a pair of her neatly laminated folding menus. "They've taken over the old Air Base. You sound like you're from 'round here. If you stick to the high street another mile and a half, there you are."

"Thank you, ma'am," replied the young man, graciously, all dimples. _What a good boy_ , Madame Tracy thought, and fetched what was left of the scones she and Anathema had been sharing. _Though his poor friend looks like he could use some cheering up_.

"These are on the house. You let me know when you're ready."

"But _you're_ not from around here," Madame Tracy heard Anathema say as she headed into the kitchen. That girl might not believe in the Devil, but she _was_ wicked.

* * *

Nicholas had to admit that he'd had sandwiches and chips far worse at any number of Sandford's tea shops. In fact, the chips had been _very_ good, and that Madame Tracy woman rather irritatingly reminded him of his mother. Cheeky of her, to observe the whereabouts of Danny's upbringing when she, too, was clearly a London import. Granted, she'd probably been out of the city longer than Nicholas had. She was beginning to pick up the local twang, which had been very apparent in the wry thirtysomething mother with astonishingly identical twins. How did she _manage_?

"She reminded me of your mum," Danny said as they walked along the high street, which had turned into scarcely more than a dirt track about five minutes ago.

"Remember what I said about your not-helping?"

Danny ignored him. "We should be nearly there. She said we'd see nothing but fields and apple orchards for a while, and then—look there! It's that Bentley we passed."

Nicholas wanted nothing so much as to whip out his notebook and lay into the smug-looking chap in sunglasses, who had been driving and was now sitting cross-legged on the car's pristine hood as if it were nothing. He waved at them casually as they approached. The blond-haired young man (mid-to-late twenties, perhaps, and a bit cocky for Nicholas's liking) beside him took a slow drag on his hand-rolled cigarette and passed it back. The closer that Nicholas and Danny got, the more apparent it was that the pair wasn't smoking tobacco. New Agers and environmentalists indeed.

"You look lost," said the young blond man, calmly, his smile so easy that it was as if his face had never known any other expression. "Are you looking for the Station? Has your car got a flat? Do you need any help?"

"Yes," Nicholas said sternly. "Tell me, is that—"

"No," said Danny, huffing slightly. "We just thought we'd walk."

The man in sunglasses snuffed out the fag somewhat twitchily, making it vanish between his fingertips with hardly any effort at all. "Friends of yours?" he asked the blond man. "Just what _are_ you getting up to now that you're not at uni anymore?"

"I don't know yet. They might be. The Station is just over that rise. It used to be the Tadfield Air Base. _Ages_ ago. It was practically in ruins when I was a kid."

"Thank you," replied Nicholas, tartly, giving Danny a look. "We'll be on our way."

"I just wanted to say, that is one _sweet_ car," Danny said, his voice full of admiration.

"If you run into some mad old chap with his arms full of apples, would you please send him back?" asked the man in sunglasses, ignoring Danny and sounding annoyed. "Last time, he got picked up for trespassing. I don't feel like talking him out of trouble."

"He won't," said the blond man, brushing some ashes off his t-shirt. "Not today."

"Um," said Nicholas, tugging Danny away even as he waved the strangers goodbye.

* * *

Even since becoming a police officer six years ago, Brian still tended to think of himself as Just Brian—and, fortunately, so did the rest of Lower Tadfield. It was pretty bunk, though, being stuck in the Station alone when everybody else was off investigating the newest duck-pond monster sighting. Rumor had it there was an enormous catfish in there, just like you heard about down on the Continent. It had reportedly eaten the Tylers' poodle, Shutzi, about ten years ago, and it had been terrorizing the waterfowl population ever since. Today's call was regarding a vanished lamb. The situation, Brian reckoned, was going to get ugly. It was just as well he was stuck where he was, he explained to Mr. Fell, who had kindly given him an apple.

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth," murmured the old man, smiling benignly. Brian had always _assumed_ he was old, seeing as he'd been coming around to see the Device-Pulsifer family for so many years, although he never seemed to look much older than a youthful fifty-something. Brian secretly hoped he'd age that well.

" _Hamlet_ ," said a stranger's voice, and the owner followed it in through the open door. "Inspector Nicholas Angel, Sandford Police, and this is Sergeant Daniel Butterman. We're sorry to have kept you waiting. We met with a—"

"Traffic collision," supplied Butterman, helpfully. "Nothing major. How do you do?"

"We've been expecting you?" Brian echoed. Nobody ever told him _anything_.

"Oh, my dear boy, I should have told you," said Mr. Fell, whose right arm still cradled four enormous apples. "I saw it written in the register on my way in that you lot are due for some First-Aid training. I should have reminded you. It's so easy to lose track on a day like this." He glanced at his watch. "Goodness! See what I mean? I really must be going." With that, he breezed past the intruding officers with a brisk nod.

Angel looked seriously put-out. "I suppose you're our man, then?"

"S'pose so," said Brian, feeling vaguely irritated. He wished Adam wasn't off running around with Mr. Fell's generally sullen partner. _He'd_ show these twats what was what.

"Cor," said Butterman, who seemed a bit more agreeable. "Where's everybody else?"

Time to start having some fun. Leaning forward, Brian put on his best mock-worried look and said, "There's been some trouble down at the duck-pond."

Angel looked fit to burst, but Butterman nodded sagely, as if he was in the know.

Brian grinned and showed them inside. Maybe he didn't need Adam's help after all.


End file.
